


Come Back To Tell You All

by daleked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleked/pseuds/daleked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts, as most mornings do: with the thump of newspaper being flung onto the mat outside her door. She gets up and opens the door to pick it up before heading back in, shutting it against the cold.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,</em><br/>Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back To Tell You All

**Author's Note:**

> I worked with dear Rabi on this. She created the most wonderful gifset which can be found [here](http://daleked.tumblr.com/post/71704316082/x-for-the-sherlock-minibang-gifset-by-the-very), meant to accompany this fic.

It starts, as most mornings do: with the thump of newspaper being flung onto the mat outside her door. She gets up and opens the door to pick it up before heading back in, shutting it against the cold.

Her hip aches.

Marie Turner comes over at lunch and brings over a tray of freshly-baked cheese muffins. They chat and nibble at the crusts before pulling out butter knives to slice one up to share. _One’s got to watch the waist when you’re pushing sixty, dear_.

'Won't you stay for tea?' Marie declines and stands, giving her hand a fond squeeze. 

'Sorry, I've got to pop down to the shops. And in this dreadful weather, too.' Mrs Hudson puts on some music as she does the housekeeping, leaving the dishes for the last, the three leftover cooling muffins sitting on the plate at the little dinner table. She suspects Marie Turner has used too much butter again— the paper cup is soaked and oily, and they gleam under light. 

By the time she starts on the dishes, it’s six. The muffins are now packed up in the fridge and she puts on her gloves before scrubbing the plates. Ruddy dishwashing liquids these days are rough on the skin, Mr. Chowdhury from number 31 had told her, and she’d immediately bought a pair that went with her favourite blouse.

There’s a click from outside.

Her heart freezes up inside her fearfully, and she remembers when Sherlock was around, those Americans barging in and roughing her up. But no footsteps follow, and she dismisses the noise.

That is, until there’s a clink of china from the hallway. And it’s as though she’s transported back five years ago when Sherlock had first moved in. He’d bumped into the little cabinet she has out there proudly displaying her china, and apologised.

Could it be?

+

'The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,' comes a voice, and Mycroft sighs audibly. There are now two sets of footsteps echoing down the hallway. 

He does not turn around to look at Sherlock. Yet.

'Tom Sawyer. How common of you.' They stop in their tracks at the same time— Mycroft a little behind, and Sherlock standing in front, shoulders more rounded than they were three years ago.

The hallways seems endless, stretched out before them. ‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, and they look at each other. Sherlock is thinner now, and there is a fading cut below his left eye, as well as a healing bruise on the inside of his right wrist. He moves stiffly when he thinks Mycroft’s attention is diverted, but keeps up easily. Mycroft is aware of the way Sherlock’s eyes flick impatiently towards the clock on the wall, and he raises an eyebrow.

'Haven't you got an appointment at a restaurant?' Sherlock's eyes glitter underneath his mess of curls and the harsh fluorescent lights.

'I have a stop to make before that.'

+

'I was right,' is the first thing Anderson says, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. The harsh barbs traded from years before have melted into a soft understanding between them, and Sherlock thinks he understands. Professional respect, from a disgraced copper to a consulting detective freshly back from the dead.

Anderson’s gaze lingers on the map tacked up above the fireplace.

 ’You tracked me,’ Sherlock says slowly. Anderson nods. Sherlock feels as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders and sticks his hand out like he was taught to when he was young, stiff at the wrist and fluid at the shoulder. Anderson takes it and they shake thrice. An understanding, Sherlock thinks, and smiles. A rapport.

+

The restaurant is stylish. Purple and brown hues, with candles and white tablecloths and clientèle all dressed up prettily. For important occasions, then. Like the Ritz. Birthdays and anniversaries and proposals.

Oh.

Sherlock clenches his fist and steps inside, waving the maître d’ away. He’s been here before, in his head, and doesn’t need anyone’s help. He’s here for one reason, and one reason only.

The waiter in his line of sight finally moves and Sherlock sees John. It feels like a million cases and one more, skimming just below his consciousness. It feels like he’s back on the drugs, jittery and hateful and blissed-out all at the same time. He takes a step, and another, and another.

 

  
_To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,_   
_Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—_   


**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought of this.


End file.
